


Okay

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Gangsta. (Manga)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Awkward First Times, Awkward Sexual Situations, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-17 18:25:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4676798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Yang,' Delico says, staring at the ceiling and trying very hard to speak the words instead of biting them off. 'You can go faster.'" Yang and Delico's first time starts out awkward and turns out okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Okay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/gifts).



Delico thinks of himself as a patient man. He long ago learned to take things in stride, to trade expectation of what things  _should_  be for acceptance of what they  _are_ , no matter how disappointing that may be. Most days there’s hardly a gap between the two at all; he knows the pattern of his life, the rhythm of his days, knows how he ought to behave in most situations and how his relationships function.

Which makes his current  _loss_  of patience the more remarkable.

“Yang,” Delico says, staring at the ceiling and trying very hard to speak the words instead of biting them off. “You can go faster.”

Yang makes a brief, cut-off whimper of concern that says he’s not listening to Delico now any more than he was the first three times the other repeated himself. “But,” he starts, and Delico knows what he’s going to say, the words straining anxiety in his throat. “But what if I  _hurt_  you?”

Delico refrains from a sigh, if only barely.

“You might,” he admits, because he’s never lied to Yang and he doesn’t plan to start now. “We’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Yang says, the words tumbling themselves frantic over his tongue as the featherlight press of his fingers eases even further, until Delico can’t even feel the friction for the slick of the lube coating Yang’s skin. “ _Especially_  our first time. What if you hate it, Delico, maybe you’ll never want to have sex again because I fucked everything up.”

Delico shuts his eyes. “I promise we can try at least one more time even if this is terrible.”

“I don’t want it to be terrible,” Yang says, and this would all be a lot easier to sympathize with if this weren’t a mantra by now, if Delico couldn’t feel the stress of anxiety converting itself into an itch of irritated want under his skin. “I want you to enjoy it.”

“I can’t enjoy it until you  _touch_  me,” Delico says, his voice cracking in a way he didn’t intend, didn’t know it would until the sound was spilling over his lips. He didn’t think he was that upset; he’s  _not_  that upset, he’s calm and collected, except that his throat is going tight and his chest feels weirdly heavy, like there’s some unseen burden pressing down on him.

“Please,” he says, his voice shaking itself nearly out of recognizability, and he has to drop a hand over his face to cover the burn at his eyes, the inexplicable tremor at his mouth. “Please, Yang, just touch me.”

There’s a pause, silence for a moment while Delico listens to the sound of his own breathing hitching out of rhythm, keeps his eyes shut against the threat of tears that will absolutely make this attempt at intimacy a resounding failure. Then, close up and against his shoulder:

“Delico,” soft, low enough Delico can feel his name rumbling into something warm and affectionate in Yang’s chest. “Sorry.”

Delico takes a breath, lets it out again. It’s easier, with Yang’s forehead pressed against his shoulder. “It’s fine.”

A laugh, rueful as much as amused. “You always say that.” Yang’s fingers draw away, settle against the inside of Delico’s thighs like they were a few minutes ago; the slick of his touch is long since warmed to skin temperature, glides easy against the open angle of Delico’s knees. “You have to tell me when it’s not, you know. Otherwise I’m never going to be sure if you’re really okay or not.”

“I’m okay now,” Delico reiterates. Yang’s fingers draw up to the inside crease of his leg, hover there for a moment; Delico’s chest draws tight, his breathing catching like it’s turned syrup-sticky in his chest. “Oh.”

“Still okay?” Yang asks. Delico can hear his voice shaking, the tremor in his shoulders tangible even as he leans in hard against Delico’s chest. “If you want we could always switch--”

“No,” Delico says, as he has every time Yang suggests this as an option. He doesn’t quite have the words for what he wants, or maybe it’s nerve he’s lacking, the self-confidence to explain how often he’s thought about this, how many times the idea of Yang’s fingers or tongue or cock inside him has been enough to push him over the edge under the slide of his hand over himself. He’s considered the inverse as well, the idea shuddering heat under his skin like electricity in a live wire, but that’s for later, he thinks, when he knows how to do it, when he knows what it feels like.

Delico’s always trusted Yang more than he trusts himself.

“Okay,” Yang says, capitulating to Delico in this like he does in so many other things, and his fingers slide in higher, his touch pressing against Delico’s entrance where it lingered before. There’s a shudder that runs down Delico’s spine, a moment of instinctive anticipation he can’t fight back in spite of all his effort, and Yang hesitates again, takes a breath against Delico’s shoulder.

Delico reaches up, presses his fingers in against Yang’s short-cut hair before the other can speak. Whatever question he had dies unstated, the silence hanging long enough for Delico to take a deep, deliberate breath, and then he’s the one to speak, turning the words into a sigh as he lets his body relax against the mattress.

“I’m ready,” Delico says, letting his fingers slide through Yang’s hair. “Do it.”

Yang lets a shivery breath out against Delico’s shoulder, sucks in air like he’s drowning. “Okay,” he says, and then --  _finally_  -- he’s moving, pressing his touch against the natural resistance of Delico’s body. There’s fire rippling over Delico’s skin, heat washing over him in waves of not-quite-pleasure; and then Yang slides into him, the very tip of one finger pushing Delico open, and they both shiver as one. Yang is the one who groans, who whimpers a note of almost-panicked heat into Delico’s skin; Delico goes silent, even his breath stopping in his chest as his body tenses against the slide of Yang’s touch.

“Oh my god,” Yang says, his voice cracking open and low and quivering. “ _Delico_.”

“Yes,” Delico manages, and he sounds breathless and shaky and he can’t steady his voice. “I’m fine.”

“You’re so warm,” Yang says. His finger is slick with lube; Delico can barely feel the friction as Yang presses in deeper, the stretch of his touch firing hyper-sensitive nerve endings. “ _God_ , you’re so  _soft_ , you’re like velvet.”

“ _Yang_ ,” Delico chokes, embarrassment stopping his throat as the unfamiliar sensation didn’t, and Yang laughs against his shoulder, a chuckle that trembles itself into another whimper as he eases in deeper.

“Sorry,” he says, turns his head until his nose is pressing against Delico’s collarbone. “ _Really_ , though, you feel  _amazing_.” He’s slipping in deeper, Delico can feel his body aching and pulling against the intrusion, and then Yang’s finger pushes in against his inner walls and he can’t help the spill of a whine that comes up his throat.

Yang stops immediately; Delico can feel the tension in his shoulders, the startled self-awareness that very nearly snatches his hand back before he remembers that he’s supposed to go slow.

“Shit,” he says, pushes up on his elbow so he can look down at Delico instead of leaning on him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

Delico’s already shaking his head, refusing the concern before he hears it. “No,” he says, but it sounds like the lie it isn’t, tearing itself to pieces around the weird heat in his throat. “No, it’s not bad, it’s just…” He reaches for words, comes up with nothing, no way to explain the stretch and burn and pressure, the sense of being filled from the inside out. “Weird.”

“Weird,” Yang repeats.

“Yes.” Delico lifts his chin, blinks up at Yang; when he tilts his head it’s to let his hair slide free of his blue eye, so he can meet the concerned dark of Yang’s eyes with complete awareness. “Keep going.”

Delico expects Yang to protest. It would be in keeping with the whole interlude to date, the tremor in his legs that he can’t control more than enough to persuade the other to call it off. But Yang just stares at him, his gaze focusing intensity against Delico, and when he moves it’s to push his finger in deeper instead of to draw away.

Delico keeps his eyes open. It’s strange to be watched so intently, to have Yang’s gaze cataloging every shiver of involuntary reaction that runs through him, but it’s worth it, if only to keep Yang from balking every time he shakes. Yang pushes forward into him, the pressure expanding up Delico’s spine and into his stomach; and then he stops, takes a deep breath like he’s accomplished some goal.

“That’s it,” he says, swallowing so hard Delico can see the motion. “Do you--are you okay?”

Delico nods, feeling the vibration of the movement all through the tension of anticipation in his body. He has to clear his throat before he can speak. “You can move, Yang.”

Yang swallows again, cracks into a smile more nervous than pleased. “Okay,” he says, and eases his hand back, the movement nearly as slow as his forward thrust was. It’s different in the other direction, the loss of pressure a relief of sorts, but the farther back Yang goes the more the absence feels like a loss, the more Delico’s body aches with want.

“Again,” Delico says, before Yang has even finished drawing back. He slides his knee wider, lets his legs fall as open as they’ll go. “Faster, please.”

“Jesus,” Yang says, sounding like he’s falling apart. Delico can feel the heat of Yang’s cock going hard against his hip, flushing dark with promise at his skin, but he doesn’t say anything; they have a ways to go, yet, even if the thought of Yang sliding into him tightens a flare of heat into his own length. “Okay.”

The second thrust is easier. Delico can still feel the burn of pressure up his spine as Yang slides into him, but it’s less painful, there’s less of the instinctive desire to clench against the shape of the other’s finger. Yang hits full depth much faster, this time, or what feels like much faster, and when he draws back he doesn’t ask for permission before moving.

“You feel amazing,” he says on the third stroke, when Delico can feel the outline of a rhythm forming between them, can reach for calm as Yang’s touch slides into him and presses the impulse for reaction out of his body. “Delico,  _god_ , you’re so warm, you’re so beautiful, you’re perfect, you know that?”

Delico manages a laugh, a faint burst of amusement at his lips as Yang presses him open, the angle of his touch sliding towards familiarity instead of discomfort. “I know you think so.”

“Because you are,” Yang says. Delico arches his hips up towards him, the angle letting Yang dip a fraction farther into him; the sensation makes him gasp, hisses air over his tongue and past his lips, but Yang doesn’t hesitate this time, just draws back to slide forward again. “You’re so amazing, Delico.”

Delico doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what to say, for one thing, and for another: “Add another finger, Yang.”

There’s a stutter in Yang’s movement, a hiss of an inhale, but he’s going harder still against Delico’s hip, and after that moment of arrhythm he just nods, slides his finger back and out to leave Delico empty and aching distantly. He glances down at his hand, like he needs to see what he’s doing to press two fingers together; the idea makes Delico flush through a moment of self-consciousness, like he’s only just realized how much of his bare skin Yang can see. But Yang is just as exposed, the tan of his skin catching into gold in the light, and if Delico privately thinks Yang has the advantage of beauty between them he knows better than to pick up that argument with the other.

“Okay,” Yang says, and he’s touching against Delico again, the friction of his fingers sliding against the other’s body to catch at his entrance. Delico can feel himself going hotter in expectation, all his body tensing in anticipation of the pressure of those fingers inside him. “Ready?”

“Please,” Delico says, and Yang looks up, catches Delico’s mismatched gaze with the steady dark of his own. They’re staring at each other when Yang pushes forward, his fingers stretching Delico up against the edge of pain again, the pressure enough that Delico doesn’t think about what face he makes as his eyelids flutter, his vision stuttering out of focus for a moment.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, and it tastes like maybe too-much, but his body is tilting up, his hips angling towards Yang’s touch like he’s a flower and Yang’s the sunlight. “Oh,  _Yang_.”

“Jesus,” Yang says, his arm trembling so badly Delico can feel it vibrating down to the touch inside him. “ _Delico_.”

“Keep going,” Delico says as Yang’s fingers pour fire into his blood, draw him open and trembling with the friction. “Don’t stop, Yang.”

“I won’t,” Yang says, sounding young and breathless and awestruck. “Delico, you’re--”

“Don’t stop,” Delico repeats, cuts off whatever Yang was going to say with the insistence; his spine is arching, his body tingling in anticipation of pressure as Yang pushes his fingers into him. He’s straining for more, it’s so much he can’t get his eyes to focus or his breathing to steady and still, he wants--and Yang’s fingers push into him, dig pressure in to sate the ache in Delico’s blood, and Delico shudders, sighs something approximating satisfaction against the air between them.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Yang gasps. “Delico, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Delico says, feeling distant and sounding dreamy. “Keep going.”

“Is that--” Yang starts, curling his fingers to fumble more pressure, and Delico shudders again, his body quivering like he’s been shocked. He’s hard against his stomach, though he doesn’t know when it happened; the idea should be embarrassing, he thinks, but it’s too hazy for him to feel anything but mildly curious about it.

“Keep  _going_ ,” he says again, and Yang finally does, drawing his hand back to slide his touch forward once more. The withdrawal is a loss, leaves Delico achy against the inside of his skin and in the pit of his stomach, but when Yang presses back in the surge of sensation is more than worth the momentary lapse, enough to arch Delico off the bed and stutter a stunned gasp from Yang.

“God,” Yang is saying, “ _god_ , this is so--you’re so hot, Delico,” but Delico can barely hear him, can barely even process the sound of his name. His skin is warm, his cheeks flushed into what must be crimson, but Yang’s spreading his fingers wider and that’s all Delico cares about, that friction turning itself into an endless heat in his veins and the heat of Yang’s cock heavy at his hip.

“Yang,” he finally manages, reaches out to press his fingers to Yang’s hip, push against him with more intent than actual force. “Please.”

“Jesus,” Yang says again, the slide of his fingers going still; Delico can feel the whole length of them, the way they’re angled wide to push him open. “Fuck, are you sure?”

“Very,” Delico manages, pushes harder at Yang’s hip. “ _Please_.”

“Okay,” Yang says, voice shaking itself to shadow in his throat. He slides his fingers free -- Delico can feel their absence like a chill in his chest -- rocks back over his knees so he can shift his balance between Delico’s legs instead of tangled with them. There’s space enough for him already, with no need for Delico to spread his knees any wider, but Yang still hesitates, his gaze sliding down Delico’s body to catch against the pink flush of his cock.

“You’re so hard,” he says, absurdly obvious commentary on the arousal Delico is too far gone to even try to deny, and then his eyes slide down farther, his gaze going shadowed as his mouth comes open.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his tone turning the word into a prayer. “God, Delico.”

“Yang,” Delico says, and he means it as a warning but it comes out as a plea, raw and shaky with want for the heat of Yang’s skin over him.

Yang looks up at his face again. His eyes are wide, blown so wide Delico isn’t sure he’s even really seeing Delico’s face anymore, and when he nods it’s short and choppy.

“Okay,” he says, “okay,” and he’s sliding forward, fitting his knee in under Delico’s and reaching to tug Delico in closer, to brace him with a hand against his hip. The touch helps, the electric warmth of Yang’s touch against Delico’s skin, and then Yang braces his cock with his free hand and Delico can’t breathe for the anticipation. He’s going tense, his body thrumming with nerves and expectation and desperate heat all at once; and then there’s pressure, the slick head of Yang’s cock fitting against him, and Delico’s throat makes a strange whimpering sound before he can call it back.

“Oh my god,” Yang breathes, and he’s not watching Delico; he’s looking down instead, his mouth open on the heat of his inhales. There’s a push, a stretch, and Delico can feel his body giving way to Yang’s movement, the head of Yang’s cock easing him open wider even than the other’s fingers did. Yang groans, a long low spill of sound that makes him sound like something in him is coming undone, and he’s sliding in deeper, the first width of him making space for the rest to follow.

“Delico,” Yang says, and Delico can’t look away from the focus in Yang’s face, the shadow in his eyes as he watches himself sink into the other’s body. “Oh my fucking god,  _Delico_.”

“Yang,” Delico says, except it turns into a groan, a whine that feels like heat made sound in his throat. Everything in his body is tense, arching up to tremble at Yang’s touch, the movement of the other pushing into him stretching into an infinity of friction. Yang’s sliding deeper, Delico arching tighter; and then Yang stops, draws into trembling stillness as Delico tries to force his lungs to expand on the air he’s no longer sure he needs.

“That’s it,” Yang says, sounding breathless, sounding shocked. “I’m--I’m  _inside_  you, fuck, Delico, you’re so fucking  _hot_.”

Delico whines, some sound between protest and arousal, and Yang’s gaze comes up, drags out across his bare skin to land at his eyes for a moment. Yang’s mouth is open, his chest working hard on the heat-deep inhales he’s taking, his eyes fathomless with the shadow in them.

“It feels good?” he says, but it’s almost rhetorical, he’s reaching out to touch his fingers to the other’s cock like Delico’s skin is magnetized. The contact makes Delico jolt, spills slick precome against Yang’s fingertips, and Yang makes a strange shattered sound and lifts his fingers to his mouth.

“Jesus,” he says again, tipping his hips forward like he’s trying to press deeper, grinding friction over them both. His tongue slicks against his skin, catches the liquid off his fingers, and Delico can’t do anything but stare, can’t even voice the strangled embarrassment trying to burn over the arousal tight in his veins. Yang licks his fingers into heat, reaches down to close his hand around Delico’s cock, and then he’s stroking up with so little warning Delico doesn’t have a chance to brace against the sensation. His eyes go wide, his head tilting back on a half-strangled wail of friction, and Yang’s groaning too, distant reaction to the all-over tension that forces itself through Delico’s body.

“Oh fuck,” Yang says over him, and he’s moving, drawing his hips back by what feels like barely an inch before thrusting forward again. His hand is moving faster, fingers pressing in against Delico’s cock, and Delico is fumbling at the sheets, clenching his hands into desperate fists as if the thin fabric can save him from the friction dragging over him or the heat pressing into him. “Delico, fuck, I can feel you clenching around me,  _jesus_.”

“Yang,” Delico chokes, his heart pounding frantic in his chest, lungs dragging at air he can’t seem to find. “ _Yang_.”

“Fuck,” Yang says, and then he laughs, a short spill of sound that comes out nearly as much a groan as amusement. “Delico, I’m...I’m not going to last, I--” Delico can feel him tense, the strain gathering in his legs and stuttering irregularity into the short-rushed thrusts he’s taking, and then: “ _Delico_ ,” hot and desperate and shaking, and he’s coming, all the strain in him spilling itself into heat inside Delico instead. Delico can’t take it in; it’s too much, the shudder of Yang curling in over him, the slide of friction inside him, and then Yang’s hand slides over him in a sudden anxious movement and Delico’s shattering apart like glass on stone, heat tearing through all his body as his cock twitches against Yang’s hold to spill come halfway up his chest. Delico can’t breathe, he can’t stop shaking, his eyes are open but he’s not seeing anything; there’s just the electricity and the friction and wet heat, Yang groaning something unintelligible and appreciative over him as his unsteady hold drags each new wave of sensation out of Delico’s body to leave him trembling and limp over the bed.

It’s some time later -- Delico doesn’t know how long -- that Yang manages to reclaim his balance, at least enough to slide out of the other and topple across the bed next to him instead of atop him. There’s the weight of an arm dropping across Delico’s chest, fingers sliding through the mess he’s made of himself, but if Delico grimaces Yang doesn’t seem to mind, just slides in closer to fit himself to the other’s side.

“How are you feeling?” Yang asks, the sound purring over Delico’s shoulder and his breathing ruffling blond hair.

Delico blinks at the ceiling, gives the question some consideration. “Okay,” he says finally. “Sore. Overheated.”

Yang makes a noise against him, a whimper of concern to the curve of Delico’s shoulder. He feels warm, sticky-hot and heavy in the leg he has draped over Delico’s knee, the arm laid possessively across the other’s chest. “Did you not like it?”

“No,” Delico says, a little too quickly. When he shifts his legs he can feel his thigh slide slick against Yang’s, wet clinging to his skin. “No, I liked it.”

Yang draws away, pushes himself up on an elbow. Delico tips his head sideways, instinctively tracking the other’s movements, and there are fingers in his hair, pushing the strands away from his eyes so Yang can see him straight-on. It makes Delico flush, feeling someone more exposed than his uncovered skin could manage; but then it’s Yang, and Yang has always seen all of him.

“I did too,” Yang says, soft and low and sweet. Then he grins, the teasing tension at the corner of his mouth that always warns of oncoming embarrassment, and Delico just has time to brace himself before Yang purrs, “You’re really fucking sexy, you know.”

“ _Yang_ ,” Delico protests as Yang laughs, his amusement skipping into almost-a-giggle that reminds Delico of years long past, of a wide smile too large for a childish face and the unselfconscious grip of childish fingers around his own. “Don’t--” but Yang is leaning in to cut him off, covering Delico’s mouth with his to stem words into a hum, and Delico’s eyes flutter shut in instinctive response, the warmth of satisfaction rising up to drown his coherency into unimportance.

He’s sure he’s going to be okay.


End file.
